The Story of A Scar
by calicoskies4ever
Summary: Takes place before season one ever started & based on the James McPherson's Story of a Scar from Wilson's POV Starts after they have sex the first time. HouseWilson slash, M for sex, language, and descriptions of child abuse No flames please review.
1. House's Appendectomy

Based on the James Alan McPherson short story _The Story of a Scar, _only told from the POV of James Wilson while looking at House's naked body for the first time. Anyway, House/Wilson slash story, some sex, mild language, and some description of child abuse.

"I can't let you be  
cause your beauty won't allow me  
wrapped in white sheets  
like an angel from a bedtime story  
shut out what they say  
cause your friends are fucked up anyway  
and when they come around  
somehow they feel up and you feel down," The Red House Painters.

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The fist time I saw Gregory House naked was one night, about a week after Stacy left the first time, and the things I noticed most were the physical scars, the ones anybody could have seen, the only ones he had chosen to show me. I was too worried about the incredibly intense pain it would cause so I didn't touch his leg. The stitches had been removed, but the skin was bright reddish pink, thin, rough, and it hurt me just to see it. I remember examining him, not as his doctor, or his friend, but as his lover, finally his lover. We had fucked—that's what House called it. He forbid me from calling it anything even remotely romantic.

The other new scar, the one on his heart, had not healed, maybe it would never heal. House's heart was pretty damaged, and I wondered if he could ever be okay again. Some how, once, he had shared with me some facts. I was lucky, he said, because my father never even spanked me, or my brothers. I'm lucky, he explained, to have never known the sharp sting of a belt buckle on my bare skin, I was never slammed into a wall head first, never forced to sleep in the backyard without a tent, or a sleeping bag, or a pillow, blanket, nothing. For me, the idea of camping is fun, exciting, and adventurous. I have never been called, worthless, stupid, weak, careless, no good—not by a parent anyway. He told me that once, and refused to discus it further, "and no I haven't told her. It's not the right time. Maybe when things get better," he said.

And so Stacy left, never completely sure as to why House acted the way he did, and when everything fell apart, he called me, but I can't see those scars, the shattered pieces of his heart that have been glued together carefully, and dropped, and re-glued, and stabbed, smashed, crushed, beaten, slapped, frozen, sliced open, squeezed, thrown, and put back together as best as possible, but everyone—at least those of us who know—were aware that he probably couldn't handle much more damage. You can only fix a broken vase so many times before you have to buy a new one. I lay there staring at his half drugged, half sleeping body, focusing on his chest, and thinking about his heart, and his beautiful, damaged soul.

This was when I noticed another scar, two of them actually. There was one soft pink line drawn neatly across the lower right quadrant of his abdomen. It was well healed, and neatly stitched up, an appendix scar, god knows that's the one thing any first year could recognize regardless of what they had seen, learned, or heard. I wasn't as surprised to see this scar as I was by the other one. This last scar, high up on his chest, between the shoulder and the armpit on the other side of his body, a long, curved scar that wound its way around to his side, and I guessed, to his back. I thought, or couldn't think rather, what it was. It was unidentifiable. It was stiff, and warn, and probably had been treated by someone with little to no real medical knowledge, but the main difference between this scar and the other two was that I couldn't for the life of me figure out where or how he got it.

Now, like I said before, I'd been staying at House's place for a week, but the most he'd felt up to before that day was letting me hug him a couple of times. In fact, I wondered if he had only slept with me to keep me from making him talk about the fact that his girlfriend left him. When he and Stacy had a fight, she usually left, and went to her sister's for the night, or a weekend. Then House would call me up and I'd come over and help him calm down. The last time, I assumed things were the same as always, at least I did at first. I heard him screaming all the way outside, and when I stepped through the door, and found him lying on the ground.

"I feel," he told me, quietly, after I asked him what happened. "I might need you some-to give me help on getting me up again." It wasn't unusual to find him drunk, especially on nights like this, so I didn't even make a comment. I wasn't surprised when he grabbed my ass, while reaching for my hand, or hen he swallowed a fist full of pain pills after collapsing on the bed. "Stacy's gone," he sobbed.

"She'll be back, you know that already, Man. That's why you called me. I'm the guy who comes over so you can yell and scream and not worry about pissing off your pretty girlfriend." I took a deep breath and decided to change the subject. "You see the Sox's game last night?"

"She took all her stuff…not coming back. I screwed up, big time, Jimmy. I knew she was mad, but I kept pushing and pushing, and fighting. Didn't even call you. Though, what's her name might be mad if I called again."

"What's her name is always mad. Things at home suck. I'd much rather be her, especially if it means—how do you know she's gone for good? Stacy's not like that. You'll see. Give it a few days."

"I fell chasing after her, she didn't even help me up. See, told ya so. Told ya." I sat with House, wrapped my arm around his shoulder, rubbed his back when he cried, ran my fingers through his hair, and held him while he slept. For three days, we talked and cried, but I was still expecting Stacy to come back. On the fourth day, I got up long before he did and called the bitch.

"You left him on the floor? Dumping a guy you just crippled is bad enough but…what the hell is wrong with you? How could you just leave a guy who can't even walk just laying on the ground?"

"I didn't…I wouldn't have. I was already out the door when he started to scream at me. I figured it was just a ploy. I'm sorry—look, tell Greg I love him, but I just can't do this any more."

"Yeah, that's exactly what I'm gonna tell him. If you call back, I'll have the number changed, and if you try to write him a letter I'll find anything you send and forward it right back to you. Stay the Hell away from him."

"Sorry, but I can't—I think it would be better if we don't talk anymore," Stacy said, and hung up. I never told House about the phone call, but as I lay there staring at his sleeping body it was one of the many thoughts running through my head.

"The fuck you staring at?" he asked groggily. I leaned in and kissed his cheek, softly. "My—it's not going to get much better, you sure as hell better get used to the way that looks."

"So, am I going to have a chance to see your—leg again?" I asked, sitting up and starting to act like I was worried about that so he would tease me and I could sneak up on him with my question.

"Aww, poor Jimmy, isn't getting any at home, is he? I'm not—you don't expect me to feel sorry for you because of _that_, do you?" House laughed, and I tired to smile and look embarrassed, but I guess he wasn't as out of it as I originally thought. "It's an appendix scar," he lied, but the weird thing is I could tell right away what he was doing, which meant he was doing a really shitty job of it. I knew him well enough to be able to read the expression on his face. "Drop it," he said without speaking.

"I don't, is—it must have happened when you were a kid, based on the level of deterioration I'd say it's a lot older than the one you got when you had the appendectomy."

"Oh shut up, you're not me," House moaned, leaned in and kissed my forehead, left cheek, right cheek, nose, lips, mouth, and I knew it was a trick. He was trying to distract me, so I pushed him away even though I wanted to make out more than I wanted to see him cry, and I knew this was going to hurt him, a lot.

"You told me about your da—you told me about the other stuff. Was this one of the things your, I mean is—did you get it the same way you—I um, well I guess I'm not really sure how to phrase this…"

"When I was about seven we had this fireplace in our house, and out back we had a stump, and we had to—he had to chop all the wood himself, and I knew better than to play with the axe. I mean hell, he even smacked me on the ass with the thing a couple of times, but I kept playing with it."

"And he chopped into your shoulder for screwing around with an axe? I mean, yeah a kid shouldn't do that, they could get hurt, but how the hell does hurting somebody teach them not to—he it doesn't hurt does it?"

"I'm only going to tell you to shut up one more time, and then I'm not talking about this ever again, got it?" he asked, and I almost said yes, but nodded instead. "I screwed up. He said he was teaching me a lesson. It was a test, and I failed. He said I had to prove my bravery. He made me lay down on my back, stretched over the stump, holding a log on my stomach, straight up, and he was just supposed to pull his arm back. He wasn't going to bring it down on me, he said so, but I flinched and dropped the log, and he couldn't stop in time and…actually that's it."

"And he was so freaked out by the fact that h nearly cut his own kid in half that he had to stitch it up himself, rather than admit that he might have a problem?" I didn't want to yell, but I couldn't help myself. House looked like he wasn't sure if he should be more afraid of his father or me. "Sorry. I just—I don't know." Now I was crying, a little, and when I kissed his hair, the words came to me suddenly. "Your father had no right to do any of those things to you, but chopping up a seven-year-old kid, for acting like a seven-year-old. Would you mind if I took an axe to his shoulder the next time I run into the guy?" I suggested, and he shook his head.

"I know he—I know it's not my fault but, can you, I mean would you really do that? For me?" There were slow tears running down his cheeks and mine and when I nodded, he buried his face in my shirt. The two of us lay there for what seemed like a really long time, me just holding him, him just barely holding on. Amazingly things seemed to get a little bit better after that day, but I couldn't help but wonder if maybe I did push him too hard.


	2. The Infarction

Chapter Two: in which House and Wilson discuss the breakup, and James promises to protect and take care of Greg forever. I'm going on after this chapter. Through Stacy's return, the affair, and the second breakup, and everything. Each chapter is a different wound, some physical, some psychological. Anyway, here we go.

"I never jumped in and rescued you,  
But I wanted to  
I didn't tell you which way to go,  
cause I thought you'd know  
You had a problem with your new found  
Wealth, you brought it on yourself  
I never told you I told you so, but I told you," The Barenaked Ladies.

An hour later House's bright, beautiful eyes flew open, in an instant, and he screamed, loudly, terrified. I knew, as I held him close, that he had no idea where he was, or what was going on. He even curled up in a ball, despite the enormous pain it seemed to be causing him.

"I'm sorry," he says, not making eye contact, emotionless, and blank. This time his comment wasn't directed at me—I don't think he even realized who I was—and I was pretty sure he thought I was John. Just then, as if on cue, there was a loud crack of thunder, a lightening flash, and rain exploded from the sky. "Please," he begged. "Please don't send me out in the rain."

"Greg, it's okay. You're okay, and nobody is going to send you anywhere. You are safe her, and nobody, nobody is gonna hurt you at all. You are safe. You're safe. It's completely safe, I promise. It's safe. Safe."

"What's up with that?" he asked, finally coming back around. "Who do you think your talking to?" This time his voice was calm, and his eyes sharp, focused. "It was nothing," he explained, popping a pill, and cuddling back into my arms. "Nightmare. I had a nightmare, okay? I just don't like storm is all."

"He made you sleep in the rain? How old—never mind, that doesn't matter. You were really scared when you first woke—did you just take another Vicodin? The last one hasn't even had time to kick in yet!"

"My leg hurts—you do know they just pulled half of my thigh muscle out, don't you? I…five. I was—five. The first time. Rain, lightening, anything, I slept in the dirt, maybe on a slab of concrete if I was lucky. Once the tornado siren went off, and he threw me out in the yard, locked the door." He got quiet again, his voice far away sounding, empty. "But when she—my mother—realized where I was she came out and grabbed me, held me, promised it wouldn't happen again, but I screwed up, and he had—didn't have any choice."

"I might not be able to fix that, but I can promise there aren't going to be any tornados in New Jersey, ever. So at least I can protect you from—I know how stupid it must sound, but my point is—" Then he cut me off.

"Doesn't really matter, all that stuff is over now. I just—I thought I finally found somebody who really got me, and then she walked out, left me. No one likes me. No one."

"I do. I _like_ you, House, I do. And not just like either, I love you. _I love you_. I've felt this ever since the day we met, and that lying; manipulative bitch doesn't know what she's giving up. She doesn't deserve you."

"I'm a lying, manipulative something or other, so don't use those—and don't call her those names. She's really great. I'm just, I just don't deserve I mean I'm not, maybe she, maybe Stacy's right. Maybe I—sorry," he whispered, softly. House pressed his face right into my shoulder, and he started to sob. Unfortunately, there was nothing I could do or say to make him feel better about this stuff, the Stacy stuff.

"You didn't deserve any of what your father did to you," I told him, in a sweet, gentle voice, running my hand over his soft hair. "I love you," I whispered, kissing him there, the top of his head, "and you don't deserve this either." I wanted to hold him in my arms and tell him that over and over until he believed me, but his eyes were already glassy, and I knew he'd be asleep soon. "I'm gonna stay here for as long as you want me, forever if you need me."

"What about your wife?" he asked, sleepily, yawning, and then pulling his body closer to mine so he could use my chest as a pillow.

"My wife is about five minutes away from dumping my ass, and I need to make you feel better so that you can return the favor when I turn up on your doorstep, looking as sorry as you do right now."

"Are you actually insulting me while I lay here with a bum leg, no girlfriend, and _you_ to take care of me? I'm so screwed, it's not even funny."

"I promise to take care of you. I will take care of you. I will make it all better," but by the time I said it, House was already out cold. "I love you," I whispered again. Then I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but every time my lids came down the only thing I could see was House's face only smaller, younger, rounder. His bright baby blue eyes were wide open in terror. Every time I tried to sleep, I saw him as a kid, a small, frightened little kid, just waiting for somebody else to come along and beat him up again.

Finally I closed my eyes to try and fix things. I imagined myself, my adult self, taking his tiny, shaking hand in mine. Little boy House looked up at me, completely full of trust and innocence, and tears stared to slide down his chubby, little cheeks. "You'll be okay now," I promised, and like a child would, he believed me instantly. So I took the kid home, and I full his empty belly with cake and ice cream, and whatever he wants, and give him a big bedroom filled with toys.

In the dream he cries every night for a year, needing to be held, needing to suck his thumb, needing to be surrounded by a couple million teddy bears, but I don't care. I just keep saying, "I'm here now. I love you," and "you're safe," and finally the House in my dreams is okay. He's ten or eleven or twelve, but he's happy, functioning. A normal House, with unlimited potential, the greatest doctor on the planet, with a great life. He and Stacy end up married, and happy, and they have kids, and he's okay. In my dreams he's alright, but I know I can't ever make things be that way forever.

I woke up around 2:00 am, sobbing, wondering why somebody couldn't have saved him before it got to be too late. When I calmed myself down finally, I saw that he was still out cold, and I held his hand, making him my promise once more, even though I knew I'd never be able to keep it.

When House woke up later, he took one look at me, sighed, and then said, "you've been crying," then popped a few more pills, waits, swings his legs over the side of the bed and stares longingly at the kitchen, and then turns back to me. "Go make me some breakfast. I'll make it to the kitchen by the time you're done."

Without thinking, I put my hand on his shoulder, and asked, "you okay?" Although to be honest, I wasn't sure if he even knew what okay was.

"Told you it was just a nightmare." Then he paused, gazing into my eyes. "You look like crap. No. I don't think I am. I'm not sure. I'm—confused right now. Ask me that again later, like in a year from now."

"I'm not going anywhere. I mean, I'm not going to leave you."

"Why do you keep on saying that?" he asked, looking at his leg. 'It's not gonna get any better then it is right now," he says to himself, and I watched from the hall as he stumbled, slamming face first into the wall, but then he pulled himself back up. Later in the kitchen, House doesn't say much of anything, until he seems to get an idea. "I don't hate her. I know you do, but I—I uh, uh, I pushed her and I pushed her, and I screwed up the way I always do."

"I can't even imagine what you're going through right now, Greg—sorry I forgot. I won't call you that anymore, if it freaks you out, if it hurts." He turned his face back up at me, and bit his lip a little, trying to smile. "I am gonna be with you for as long as you oh—okay…okay, I've got you. It's okay. I've got you."

"It just seems like bad things are always happening to me. People are always trying to screw me in some way or another. First my father—and then she goes and fucks me over twice."

"I won't do that. I will never screw you over, and I won't hurt you. I'll never ever hurt you."

"Never say never," he said quietly, and then nodded. "But I'm gonna trust you. I'm not gonna—I'm gonna try and not push you away, but you gotta be willing to work with me, be good to me, put up with my outrageous—stuff."

"I will do anything for you, okay? You believe me? Good." It took me damn near forever to get House feel comfortable and safe again. I held him in my arms every night, promised to take care of him, promised to love him, promised I would never leave, and I told him that everything was gonna be okay, over and over and over.

I spent five years holding him, kissing him, telling him it was gonna be okay, taking care of him, but after a while he finally seemed to be getting better. He wasn't happy, he wasn't anywhere near fixed, but he was about as close to getting over _her_ as he was ever going to be, and then Stacy had to waltz back into our lives as if nothing had happened. She even went to work at the hospital, which meant she was dealing with House on a regular basis, and of course all this contact made him think he had a chance at winning her back.

I tried to talk to Greg about it, but he'd just lie in bed pretending he was listening, but I always knew what was going on. He would stare at the ceiling, his eyes moving back and forth, and I could tell that his brain was scheming, planning, trying to create the perfect plan. Soon I came to realize that I had only one option left. I had to talk to Stacy, and make sure she stayed away from my man. There was no way in hell I was going to let her hurt him ever again.


	3. Stacy

Chapter Three: in which Stacy comes back. Includes spoilers for _Spin, Hunting, The Mistake, Failure to Communicate, and Need to Know_. I'm also sort of working on a piece that takes place around season three episode _Half Wit_. What if House wasn't faking brain cancer…what if he went to Wilson for help…blah, blah, blah, looking to see if anyone's interested. Any who, here's your story.

"Sure, Stacy in the original Greek means relationship killer," Greg House.

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"Stay away from Greg," I practically screamed at her when I stormed into Stacy's office on the afternoon of the day he and Mark had their little run in, in the cafeteria.

"Are we in firth grade? Ohh, fun! I've been dying for a reason to put my hair up in pigtails. Besides, he can't stand to be near me, or did you miss this morning's fun?"

"He's still in love with you." And he's mine, I wanted to add oh so desperately. "Mark's doing better now, you can go home."

"Greg doesn't love me. All he wants is to show me how miserable I made him feel the last time, and if you don't think I feel crappy about it, then you're even dumber than he is. I'm married now, it's not like I'm gonna sleep with him." Stacy stood up and headed for the door, but I refused to let her go until she promised, and I blocked her from exiting. "You don't actually think I would—what do you want me to say?"

"Promise me you're going to stay away from him. Be nice, but don't act like—I don't know. Just stay away, please. He might not, make it, if you dump him again."

"I'm not even going to dignify that with a response, except to say I'm not going to dump him, because we aren't dating and I'm _not_ going to sleep with him!" Then she pushed me out of the way. I spent the rest of the afternoon watching General Hospital with House, touching his hand, or shoulder, or leg every so often, smiling at him, but we didn't say much.

"I know she's not going to leave Mark. I don't even think she. I don't—I'm not sure. I can't. I still feel like I need—I'm just trying to get Cuddy to fire a lawyer who hates my guts, and since more than half of the hospital's legal problems are related to me, I—she can't be here."

"Do you still love her?" was the only thing I could think of to ask. He didn't say anything. Instead House picked up the mini TV in his left hand and limped out of the room.

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"I've rescinded my offer, you can walk to work!" I shouted. He laughed and read me another quote from Stacy's psych file.

"So what, you're going to convince her to have sex with you to prove that Stacy is in love with you? How are—what happens when Cuddy kicks her out and she and Mark move far, far away?"

"Hopefully everything can go back to normal. Hey, I got plenty to go around if little Jimmy is feeling neglected," he told me with a small giggle. Then his hands went to work pulling my belt off as he pushed me into a sitting position on the couch. He got down on his knees, pulled my hard cock out of my boxers, and kissed all over my exposed chest, stomach, and inner thighs. Then he wrapped his hands around my hips, taking my whole dick in his smiling mouth, and sucked so hard that after I came, I couldn't see straight for almost five full minutes.

"And. You. Want. Stacy. Back. Why?" I gasped, looking up into his soft, beautiful eyes. At this point he was standing again, and rinsing his mouth out with Listerine.

"Just drop it, okay?" he pleaded, and we stepped outside.

The amazing thing about House is not so much that he is brilliant, or his ability to diagnose patients without ever meeting them, but how stupid he can be when he thinks he is going to get what he wants. Capturing and adapting a rat from her attic was pure genius. Getting Stacy to spill her guts and then screwing it up was, careless, but I knew better than to call him on it. We sat on the couch together that night, watching TV and drinking beer. "She does like me, but we're. I screwed up again."

"Don't worry, everything is gonna be okay. I'm here. I love you. I'll protect you," I started to explain, but he cut me off.

"I don't need you to take care of me, James. I'm fine. She still likes me. She wants me. I can feel it." House bit down on his lower lip, and pulled himself close to me. "This is just gonna take a little bit longer than I was expecting." As we sat thee, House carefully moved his body so he was lying with his head in my lap, curling up as best he could. "I had a bad day. It's nothing. I swear."

"Does she know? About your—does Stacy know…no. And you're not going to tell her either, are you? It would make this stuff a heck of a lot easier, don't you think?"

"I don't want pity. If I wanted a girl to have sex with 'cuz she felt bad for me, I'd tell Cameron, maybe Chase. I'm not in love with Stacy,' he said for about the millionth time, but we both knew he didn't mean a word of it.

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"She yelled at me," House says, as if I would be completely shocked by such a thing. "Then she left, came back, and yelled at me again." Rather than attempt to discus the issue of whatever Stacy is really mad with him or not, I figured it would be slightly safer to let my boyfriend know I had woken upon the middle of the night to the sound of him crying in his sleep, and then as if this wasn't bad enough I also have to add the other thing. While he was crying, I tried to touch his shoulder and he shouted, "NO!" and woke up.

He tried to play it off as a nightmare, but I couldn't help noticing the way he wouldn't let his body touch mine when he went back to sleep. In the years between when Stacy left and when she came back, House had shared with me a boatload of horror stories, including the morning when John House sent little Greg off to school even though the boy was complaining of nausea and stomach pain. By the time Greg got to school, he was vomiting uncontrollably. The nurse called an ambulance, which drove him to the Emergency Room, but of course his appendix had already burst and so what could have been a simple operation was serious and a small boy almost lost his life. What was John's reaction, you might ask. He shouted at the child.

"Why didn't you tell me you were so sick?" he asked? Somehow Greg's mom was almost always out of the home when these things happened and House insisted that had she known how bad it was, she would have rescued him. "She was always trying to protect me, sneak me food when I wasn't allowed dinner, she held me when I was scared, you know—normal parent stuff," he explained, and I believed him. House's father may have been a monster, but I'd met his mom too; she not only gave a crap, but she still tried to protect her son from hi father's wrath, even now.

"You were crying in your sleep again last night, and you freaked out when I touched you."

"Where did you—touch—me?" he asked, already starting to laugh, before I could answer. "Oh come on, I'm fine. You just worry too much."

"Did your father—or somebody else—I might not understand much about child abuse, but what I have—it doesn't make sense for him to beat you senseless just for little things you might have done wrong, if he wasn't…I mean did he—touch—"

"Please don't finish that sentence. I'll do whatever you want—I'll give up Vicodin! But please, don't do this." House's eyes darted to the ground, and he stood up, heading for the door. "Looks like you got your answer after all," he told me and walked out. I didn't hear from him again for a few days afterwards. He even kicked me out of his apartment. In fact, the only reason he started speaking to me again was because I told him that Cuddy was planning to put Foreman in charge for good, unless he did something.

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When House got back from Baltimore, he pretended like he didn't wanna talk about what happened, until I brought it up. I had to cancel two different appointments while I spent my morning running back and forth between the two offices like some little messenger boy, but House was smiling which most people would consider a miracle. Then again, I was worried about both of them because I knew things would end badly, and when it did—two days latter—I went up on the roof and got into a screaming match with House, and I said a lot more than I really meant to.

"Hey, I'm sorry about that. I'm just frustrated because my wife hates me and—she's well you know what she's doing because you always tease me about it. Let's go get drunk at your place."

"I was just thinking that maybe I should just save everybody the trouble, and…" he informed me, nodding his head over the side of the roof, and past the ledge.

"Do I have to run over there and pull you off the edge of the roof? Because if I hafta put you on a psych hold, Cuddy's never gonna speak to me again, and then there's the problem of—well you get the picture."

"Psychology is a stupid specialty. I mean, have you ever actually read Freud? Yikes!" House pressed his lips to mine softly. "How come you put up with me?" he asked later that night.

I said the first thing which popped into my head, "I love you," without even thinking.

"But nobody else does?"

"Well, Cameron's in love with you, which is actually harder to do, and Chase has a crush on you, I think, and St—she used to love you, but she's married to…"

"She and Mark aren't going to end up happily ever after. She says—well I guess it doesn't really matter since your kid with matches and dynamite metaphor didn't suck half as much as I said it did…But, you do? Love me?"

"Yes. It _is _possible, and you absolutely deserve to be loved. I love you," I whispered to him, wrapping my arms around his shoulder.

"Just don't walk out on me or anything, okay?" House's wide-open, blue eyes seemed almost helpless when he stared up at me. He looked so small and weak, and all I wanted was to hold and protect and take care of him forever. I knew it wasn't going to be easy, but I was willing to work with him, and so when he said, "You gonna spend the night?"

I said the only thing I could, "yes. I will." And I did.


	4. Little Boy Lost

Chapter Four: in which Stacy leaves, House goes off the wall, and then, later, opens up to Wilson, and tells him everything. Spoilers for season two episodes _Distractions_, and _Skin Deep._ Warning graphic details of childhood sexual abuse are described in this chapter. Two more are coming up, the next is the one where House gets shot, and in the other from when he electrocutes himself.

"I've never been the kind to ever let my feelings show  
And I thought that bein' strong meant never losin' your self-control  
But I'm just drunk enough to let go of my pain  
To hell with my pride, let it fall like rain  
From my eyes  
Tonight I wanna cry," Keith Urban.

"My leg hurts," House whimpered laying himself down on the sofa in my office. "I can't work—I can't even think. If my team finds out—they won't listen to a word I have to say." I walked to his side, and sat down on the armrest. "Jimmy, please, I know—you wanna hear about my father…molesting me, I'll tell you all the filthy details, but I'm gonna need about five or six milligrams of morphine just to get there."

"I'm not giving you morphine, and I'm definitely not forcing you to talk about the other thing. You cured that migraine you gave yourself next week, why don't you just drop acid again?"

"Pills barely take the edge off, it just hurts. You saw my MRI—I don't know why, but…I'm unable to concentrate. I can't do anything. I have to make it better so I can do my damn job. His hand lifted up and he dropped it on my own. This time, however, he refused to look me in the eyes, and I knew exactly why. I reached over to stroke his hair, and then spoke.

"If you're coming to me, it's not because you think I'll pump you full of morphine. I will hold you, rock you in my arms, give you a massage, tell you how much I love you, talk about—anything, but I can't give you morphine."

"This has nothing do with!" He stopped, calming himself down. "This has nothing to do with Stacy...or my father. I knew, when I saw the way he looked at her. I've seen that look. Of course I wasn't a sixteen year-old supermodel, but—I didn't even try to stop him."

"I'm not sure which _him_ we're talking about. The first time—you were a little boy. He was your father. Nobody should have to try and figure that out, let alone stop it, but a child...how could a child…" I couldn't speak. House let me hold him then, and we spent the night on my couch as I tried to explain how none of this was his fault. He never slept, but he swallowed almost half the bottle of pills, and he cried.

"I hate you," he sobbed into my shirt at one point, beating at my chest with weak, little boy fists. Neither the punches nor the angry words were meant for me, but I took it. I took everything he threw out, knowing full well that I was the only person he wasn't too terrified of to say these things to. Most of the night was a haze of bitter tears, and an ice cold throbbing in my chest where my heart should have been. I knew I had no heart, how else could I deny the man I loved the thing he needed most? Then in the morning I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew House was gone. My first patient of the day was waiting and the next time I saw him, the poor guy no longer seemed like a poor guy. He wasn't stooped over, rubbing his thigh, or popping Vicodin every half hour on the hour. Later, he admitted what he and Cuddy had done, but tried to convince me it wasn't wrong.

"Cuddy shouldn't have done it like that. By lying to you all she did was decrees your ability to ever feel like you can trust anybody." I was only telling him what he wanted to hear, of course, but at this point he didn't seem to care. "You wanna talk about the other thing?"

"What, you wanna hear all the filthy details? I know you can be kinky sometimes, but come on. Okay, I'll stop acting like a complete ass, just don't give me that look anymore—and I am gonna need some…stuff."

At first I thought I should offer him a valium, but once I reconsidered, thought what it was going to be like for him to relieve this, and I gave in, and filled his child-like body so full of morphine that he lay in my arms for two hours content to do nothing except stare into space and breathe shallowly. Then he seemed to regress to the age and state of a five-year-old boy. His tone and pitch didn't change at all, but he acted, spoke, and even moved like a child.

"It's okay now," I told him, the way I'd been dreaming of ever since he first told me what had happened. I took his hand in mine, kissing it. "I'm here to protect you. Might not be able to keep away every type of pain or hurt, but I'll make sure the monsters never get you again." House's empty-eyed face lulled to the side and he smiled half lucidly.

"Daddy doesn't like me. Do you like me? You're really nice, but I'm still scared, sort of. He hurts me. A lot. I don't—like—scared of him. Bad boys don't get to eat supper. It's a privilege to sit at the table and eat with us. The spankings not so bad, but his belt really hurts, especially when he uses the sharp end."

"He beats you with a belt buckle!" I couldn't control myself, couldn't keep from shouting, which freaked him out even worse. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't yell, and I won't interrupt you again."

"Dad says I'm not allowed to lie. It's real, real bad, he says, but he lies sometimes, and I can't tell anybody what happens when he comes to my room, not to hit me." House sighed holding his fists by the sides of his head, like he was going to hit himself with them. I decided not to hold him still until he actually started beating himself, since he was so uncomfortable being touched. "I'm hungry. If he doesn't find out, do you think I could eat a little something?"

"I think you could have as much as you want, and I won't tell anybody, I promise." I could tell from the way he looked at me that he didn't think I was trustworthy, but he didn't seem to trust anybody. "I won't tell him. I won't even let him in this apartment."

"Cross your heart, hope to die?" he whimpered again. "Can I have a sandwich?" Forgetting momentarily that he probably wasn't conscious of most of his adult memories right then, I asked if he wanted a Ruben. "Peanut butter and jelly is good. Do you have the stuff where it's all in the same jar together?" he asked, starting to resemble a younger version of himself more and more every minute.

"I'll look. If you wanna come with me, you're gonna need a hand, or the cane, because of—you hurt your leg—it might, be hard to walk. If –I can help you…" Before I could finish, he was already standing and making his way to the kitchen, slowly but steadily. "We have it. I only need a minute to make the sandwiches."

"I like it—I mean, if you aren't gonna tell anyone, then maybe I can just eat it out o the jar?"

"Only if I can have some too," I promised opening it and grabbing us each a spoon. House smiled for about half a second, and then went right on eating. "Sometimes if my dad won't let me eat, I sneak down to the kitchen but he always catches me and then he does the bad thing. First he pretends to be nice, and touches my hair with his face, and he takes off his belt, but he doesn't always hit me. Sometimes he takes his pants off too and makes me sit in his lap so his thing is poking up against my tummy, and he makes me rub it with my hand and he touches my thing too, but I can't do it the same way he does. When he is finished this stuff comes out, but I just feel funny down there. I know it's bad, but it feels kind of good, and if I cry he hit's me and makes me sleep outside or take a really, really cold bath. Daddy said, said nobody's gonna believe me."

"I believe you, and I know it wasn't your fault. Your daddy is a very bad man, but he won't ever hurt you again, I promise, and while you stay here you can eat whatever you want, whenever you want, and I will let you watch anything on TV, play games, or do anything else. Thanks for sharing with me. This is really yummy."

"Are you being nice to trick me? Owie!" He started to sob. "My leg hurts really bad." This was when the screaming should have started, only he didn't scream. My brother's kids scream their heads off over the tiniest things. Some kids have a higher threshold of pain, but what he must have been feeling, was too much for even the toughest kid. This was when I realized just how awful it got when and if he cried. House was biting his lip hard enough to draw blood, breathing heavily, every muscle in his body squeezed tight to try and stop himself.

"House?" I asked, studying his face, not because I thought he was faking but to try and gage how much morphine to give the kid House. "I can give you some medicine to make it better, but I have to put it in a shot. Is that okay, Greg?" He nodded, clinging to me like a life preserver. "Okay, I'm going to explain everything before I do it so you don't get scared, alright? First I gotta tie this big rubber band around your arm so I can see where your veins are. Now I'm gonna clean the skin on your arm so that no germs can get inside. Can you tell me how much it hurts?"

"Worse than any of the bad stuff, even worse than when he uses the sharp part of his belt. How bad is the shot going to hurt?" he asked, reaching his hand up like he was going to suck his thumb.

"It's just going to be a tiny pinch, and you can do whatever you need to make yourself more comfortable. Once the medicine is inside your body, you're gonna start to feel better right away."

"I want—what's your name?"

"I'm Jimmy—uh Dr. Wilson, you can call me Jimmy though, if you like. I have another patient, a little boy, and if he has to get a shot he sings sometimes." House nodded and as I listed to him trying to sing the words to the Purple People Eater song, I kissed his hair, gave him the shot, and laid him down in bed. This time he didn't talk. House seemed pretty much exhausted and fell asleep after just a few minutes. I held his fragile body close and rubbed his back gently, and he cried in his sleep.

When House woke up the next morning, he claimed he didn't remember the previous night, which wasn't surprising, but when I told him what had happened, the first thing Greg did was apologize.

"I did all of that? I guess I must have been really out of it."

"Or maybe the only way you felt safe enough to tell me was for you to—was to go back to being a little boy. Do you need another shot?"

"I don't think it hurts as much—well maybe I think. I might be able to go without it for a little—I was thinking, it's not right for me to ask you to put yourself in this position, to make you do this for me."

"But you are still in pain? And it hasn't changed at all?" I asked, kissing his forehead. He made a face, and then turned away. "Do you think, has it gotten any better, at all? I mean, what I was—I didn't make it worse, did I?"

"No. Maybe you're right. Maybe I can't—deal with my own problems and… What if—I wanted to know if maybe you might, want to, be willing to talk to me, about stuff." It took almost two weeks for him to have even the smallest change, and he cried almost every day, but when we finally got there, he seemed better. House was still House, but he was starting to turn a corner.


End file.
